


Brother of Demons

by kingxxlink



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingxxlink/pseuds/kingxxlink
Summary: PRONUNCIATIONS:Ibraldr - Ih-brahl-derDaceal - Dah-kee-ahlDenleir - Dehn-leerMeyihlia - May-IH-lee-ah





	Brother of Demons

**Author's Note:**

> PRONUNCIATIONS:  
> Ibraldr - Ih-brahl-der  
> Daceal - Dah-kee-ahl  
> Denleir - Dehn-leer  
> Meyihlia - May-IH-lee-ah

Imp’s bag hung heavily from his shoulders. It had felt so much lighter the night before, while he was packing, but now it felt as if all his carefully thought out provisions had turned to dense, angry stones, determined to keep him in place and away from the jungle calling his name. Or perhaps, he thought, those stones were only the anxious knots in his stomach, now creeping up his spine.

The book his father left him had warned of trees that scraped the skies, wild animals prowling along the outskirts of the woods and even stranger creatures under the jungle canopy. It had told him about the village he’d stayed in for the last three months and gave him just enough information to help him earn the villagers’ trust. It hadn’t said a thing about what to do with the sweat slicking his palms. It hadn’t told him about his pulse and the way it would race, leap-frogging into his throat and lodging there. It hadn’t told him where to find the courage to keep going.

But there was no turning back now. His father’s research had brought him this far, but Imp needed to do the rest on his own. He pressed forward, pushing into the forest and making his path as he went.

Imp wandered under the branching canopies for what must’ve been hours. Within the first, it had become hard to see the sun’s position and gauge the time he’d already spent. By the second hour, the sun was gone, swallowed by the interlocking tree boughs. He was left in a greenish darkness with only a compass to keep him on the right path. The villagers had spoken of stone ruins to the northeast of their village, somewhere deep within the forest, but Imp had no idea how far he’d have to go to find it. Neither the book nor his father’s notes could provide such specifics. Surely, though, it was only a matter of time until he found it.

When Imp stopped to rest for the first time, he sat down between two trees, sliding his pack off his shoulders and retrieving a small bundle of dried fruits from inside. While he ate, he reread sections of his father’s journal, scratching small notes in the margins with a piece of charcoal from his bag.

Two decades ago, his father had visited this island. Imperius Sr. was already an accomplished historian with more than enough discoveries to be proud of, but the ruins of Ibraldr were supposed to be his crowning achievement. He’d spent years scrutinizing ancient tomes and building a timeline of the nation’s bloody history, dreaming of the day he would finally see their exceptional fortresses and towers. He never made it past the village. A man named Daceal had been the village chieftain at the time, and Daceal was a very, very suspicious man. Imp’s father had written of multiple encounters with the old man, and each one ended the same way: Imperius Sr. was labeled a monster and a demon before being cast out of the village and told, in no uncertain terms, to never come back.

When Imp arrived on the island, he’d expected to be treated much the same, if not worse. He was barely twenty years old, and certainly didn’t have the same experience as his father. Imp, however, had gotten lucky. Old Daceal had passed on a few years before, leaving his son, Denleir, to lead the village.

Denleir was very different from his father. He was still unsure of the outside world, but he was young and curious. He had welcomed Imp to the village, eagerly exchanging the local lore of Ibraldr for Imp’s tales of the world beyond the island. He’d also been the first to tell Imp about the island’s storms.

Imp closed his father’s journal as he thought back on Denleir’s warning. The winds had been light when Imp set out, more of a spring breeze than a blustery gale, but according to the chieftain, that was often a sign of the tempests to come.

_I still don’t believe it_ , Imp thought as he got to his feet, packing away the remains of his meal. None of his reading had mentioned something as sudden as what Denleir had described, but…he supposed it was possible. He didn’t know the island as well as the village chieftain did, but if the man was right…well, Imp would just have to find the ruins before the storm started.

Imp continued through miles of dense jungle, leaving behind a trail of knife marks on trees thicker than he was tall. He’d left the village early enough that it had to be close to mid-afternoon by now, but there had still been no sign of sun breaking through the trees. As he was starting to think he’d need to stop and rest for the night, the close-knit trunks started to open, the branches separating and letting in startling beams of sunlight. Imp raised an arm over his head, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. For his first few moments in the artificial, circular clearing, he just stood there, staring at the impossible wonder directly ahead of him.

An ancient stone tower soared upward from the dirt, surrounded by ragged blocks that Imp guessed must’ve fallen from it over the years. Each brick was made from dull, weather-worn sandstone, interlocking into a grid that climbed higher and higher until it seemed to scrape against the sky. The only sign of an entrance was an arching black hole at its base, an empty portal into mystery. Tufts of dry grass grew in a sparse circle around the building, slowly inching inward towards its base, and to Imp’s surprise, looking greener as they went. The small wildflowers that bloomed directly beside the spire were the most life he could see amongst the ruins, but he couldn’t imagine how they’d survived when almost everything else in the clearing remained the dismal yellow-brown of the monolith’s bricks.

_Surely no one lives here anymore_ , Imp thought to himself as he slowly moved closer to the ruins. After the first few steps, he stopped again. The previously gentle wind had picked up, no longer rustling just a few leaves. The treetops shook in an unnerving rhythm around him, and all sounds of wildlife had gone silent. The screeching monkeys had disappeared, as had the gentle, rumbling growls of the big cats prowling in the dark. The birds had all fled, leaving no fluttering wings or anxious squawks to echo behind them. How long had he been alone on this journey? When had all the surrounding life just…ceased to be?

Fear began to bubble like bile in his throat. Denleir’s warning suddenly held a lot more weight. In fact, many of the younger villagers had warned him against going out today, of all days, had warned him about the bizarre nature of the jungle, but he hadn’t listened. They called him “the pale-eyed stranger”, after all. They looked at his tanned skin and pastel hair and labeled him the brother of demons. _How could I trust the judgement of a people so superstitious?_ he’d thought. No storm would suddenly appear to swallow him whole. It just wasn’t possible.

He knew better now. He should’ve trusted them, each and every one. They’d watched this jungle for generations, lived amongst the shelter of its branches and built themselves homes only with its help. They knew more of this place than he could ever dream, but he hadn’t listened.

He considered all of this, standing alone in the dead grass, staring at his goal, both so close and so far away. He considered turning back, running for the safety of the village and disappearing into one of the chieftain’s strange, soothing herbal concoctions. His heart had begun to pound again. Even if he couldn’t make it all the way back to the village before the storm hit, he could at least hide in the trees, couldn’t he? He had already made it here once. Surely he could do it again. What harm would there be in turning back now, for his own safety?

While he thought, the wind began to blow harder, whipping the dirt around him into angry dust clouds. Storm clouds had begun to roil overhead, foretelling of the coming onslaught.

Imp took one defiant step forward. Then another. He’d come so far to get here, to stand on the cusp of what his father had only dreamed of. He couldn’t turn away now, not without ever knowing what lay inside the old tower. With that in mind, it was easier to keep going, easier to approach doom or destiny.

The rain started as one droplet on his arm, then his hand. Another touched his eyelashes before dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. He was only a handful of yards away when a face appeared in the open doorway. At first, it was hard to make out more than twin ruby lights in a long, pointed face, but the longer he stared, the more he frightening the vision became. The thing was shaped like a human for the most part, he supposed, but bristles of fur coated its jaw, giving way to a bare, leathery muzzle lined with tapering fangs. Where Imp had seen lights, he now saw eyes, glowing in the deepest crevasses of its face.

The monster took a heavy step forward. Bones hung from a necklace around the beast’s throat, rattling a warning despite the bed of thick, deep grey fur they rested upon. As Imp stared at what was surely his destruction, he briefly contemplated running. The beast was taller than him, though, had to be faster. Stronger. He could run, but he wouldn’t get far. All his addled mind could think to do was stand there, gaping like a witless fool.

“The storm will kill you.” The creature said. Its voice was something of a low growl, rough and scratchy but not nearly as threatening as he’d expected. He gaped at it for another few minutes. It tried again. “Take shelter. Can you understand that? _Shell-terr._ ”

“I think I might faint.” Imp said. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the beast or himself. Monsters didn’t speak. They certainly didn’t offer help or try to sound words out for their incoherent prey. Did they?

“At least faint under the tree line. You might not die there.” It paused a moment, raising a surprisingly small, but viciously clawed hand to its chin. Was it…thinking? “Or in my tower, I suppose. If you stay quiet.”

Imp barely sputtered a word of surprise before the thing turned away.

A handful of seconds passed before the first crack of thunder. Without thinking, Imp yelped and chased after the beast’s shadow. As soon as he ducked under the stone eaves, standing maybe two feet from his potential demise, he started to realize his fear had led his eyes astray.

He hadn’t followed a beast; he’d followed a woman wrapped in wolf fur, covering rich, clay-brown skin. As she walked towards a firepit in the center of the room, her fur cloak shifted this way and that, revealing the edges of clothing that looked a surprising amount like what the villagers had worn, albeit ragged and frayed by time. The snout and bristling hair Imp had seen were part of a mask modeled after a strange, almost gruesome interpretation of the local wolves. As she removed it to look at him again, he realized her sharp eyes were indeed red, but otherwise…she looked like the villagers, the people who had told him stories of monsters and eyes made of fire. Her hair was grown out wild, tangled and unkempt, but it was the same deep grey as the elders he’d drank with. She must’ve been of an age with them, Imp thought, some sixty or more years old. She was still quite intimidating, and she never stopped stared at him like he was a hapless rabbit wandering where it didn’t belong, but she was no monster. She was just a person.

“Are you disappointed, boy?” She asked. Disdain dripped from her words. “Did you come to see the demon they talk about?”

“No, I—” Imp gulped down a far too hasty refusal. “I was…I was looking for these ruins. I wanted to learn more about their history, to find—”

“Treasure.” She said. “Demons or treasure. That’s all anyone comes for.”

“But you’re no demon.” The words tumbled out before Imp could stop them. “Who…who are you? What are you doing out here?”

The woman stood up a little straighter as she listened to his questions, staring at him in silence for a moment. Imp started to worry when she frowned, wondering if he’d made her angry. She still cut an intimidating figure and had absolutely no reason to fear a skinny thing like him. “No one has asked me this before.” She said. She turned away from him, looking at her firepit again, but Imp stepped closer to her, growing more confident and more curious by the second. She hadn’t tried to kill him yet, at least.

“Please, I want to know.” He said. “I came to learn more about this place. Do you live here?”

The woman mumbled something Imp couldn’t hear, clutching at one of the bones at her neck. Imp looked at the rings adorning each of her fingers, marveling at the carefully carved crescents arcing out from the bands. _Those were her claws_ , he thought.

“I am…Meyihlia. I am Ruin. That is what the villagers call me.” Her voice was soft when the words finally came, as if in her head, she was somewhere far away. “I lived with them once. Many years ago. I was strange. I was devil-eyed, they said.”

To Imp’s surprise, when he kept asking questions, she kept talking. He started to think that she’d been telling the truth. No one had ever asked her about herself before, about how she’d come to live here, alone, in an abandoned, deteriorating ruin. She seemed almost eager to share her stories, now that she had someone to share them with.

Meyihlia built a fire as she talked, and her stories drowned out the storm outside while the warmth of the flames drove away the chilling, howling winds. The two of them sat on opposite sides of her carefully constructed firepit, watching each other through the haze of dancing lights and dust motes. She told Imp about her family, long since driven out of the village by the previous chieftain, Daceal. She and her mother had been given “fire eyes,” as she called them, and Daceal was convinced that the fire eyes were gifts from evil spirits working to destroy the village. He didn’t want to be another lost tale like Ibraldr, or so he told the villagers when he rallied them against Meyihlia and her family. That night, they’d banded together to destroy the demons among them.

Meyihlia and her mother had fled into the jungle while her father tried to fight off the enraged villagers. The two of them eventually found the ruins, making what they’d hoped to be a temporary home while they waited for Meyihlia’s father to join them. He never came and her mother refused to leave, instead searching for her father as often as she could. Within the year, her mother disappeared too. Imp wondered if she’d just left her then-teenage daughter to join her presumably dead husband. He chose not to mention it.

As she went on, Imp came to realize what the villagers had meant when they called him the brother of demons. They had been referring to Meyihlia and her family. Her carnelian gaze had somehow become comparable to his nearly colorless eyes, the two of them forced into a group they’d had no say in. As the storm went on and night set in, Imp began to realize how thoroughly he’d been tricked. The sideways glances and words whispered just out of earshot began to make sense. Even Denleir had played his part, though Imp doubted he knew the truth of what his father had done. From the day he’d arrived at the village, the elders had been telling him fantastical stories of a ruin that was just that: a ruin. An old, lifeless building with all its history stripped down to bricks and dead grass. Meyihlia had been trying to grow the few living flowers herself, she said, but there was nothing else here. Nothing but death, or so the villagers had thought. Whatever Imp’s father had hoped to find was long gone.

Meyihlia continued to tell him stories until the fire burned low, the two of them reduced to blurry outlines in the dark. She seemed friendlier by the end of it, and Imp no longer worried that she would suddenly decide to cannibalize him. When she suggested that he sleep until the storm passed, he agreed. He was too tired not to. And as he curled up on a pile of warm, dry furs, he thought, _Those villagers don’t understand what a monster is._

_All monsters are human, but not all humans are monsters._

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for a Creative Writing course at my university. It's based off of some characters I made as a child some fifteen years ago - a couple of Neopets.  
> These are no longer those Neopets. They might even be the beginning of a proper series one day. In the meantime, here's an idiot wandering into a jungle.


End file.
